


Of Kings and Rebels

by Electricviolinist



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4228857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electricviolinist/pseuds/Electricviolinist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mr Whittemore, I presume,” greeted a man at the centre.  He was one of the older members of the group, definitely over thirty but otherwise hard to place.  He looked strong, capable and in charge.  Stiles had to stare a good moment before he realised he was expected to speak.  He was unused to being expected to speak. Usually he was speaking when he was expected to be quiet.<br/>“Uh, yeah,” he said, “That’s me. Whittemore. Totally my name.”<br/>The leader of the rebels smiled, and made quick eye contact with the man on his right.  Stiles tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed that that guy was beautiful. “And do you know who I am, Mr Whittemore?”<br/>“Uh…” said Stiles, looking at Jackson, knowing he’d said something on the carriage.  Was he supposed to know who this guy was?  “I’m guessing some sort of well-spoken bandit or something?  Based on the whole, well-spokenness and bandit-like activity.”<br/>The leader smirked.  The guy next to him frowned.  Jackson mumbled “Idiot.”<br/>...xxx...xxx.<br/>Stiles is Jackson's servant, and one day, as they travel to a business deal, they are stopped by bandits, who seem to think they're actually royalty.  One of them is a beautiful man called Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The carriage rattled around them. Stiles had heard the shouts before Jackson did. He’d noticed the sound of more hooves a few minutes before, but had dared to believe it was nothing. But it was at the sound of the shouting that had made Jackson start panicking.  
“Bandits!” he’d shouted.  
Stiles had already figured that much out by that point. He’d just decided it was better not to let Jackson panic. Because Jackson was a dick when he panicked. Well, Jackson was a dick most of the time, but when he was upset, Stiles preferred to be a few hundred miles away and wearing earplugs. Not stuck in a stupid carriage with him.  
“I told you we should have ridden!” Jackson shouted, “There’s no way we can out ride them in this box!”  
“Yeah, because that was my choice,” said Stiles, “Had nothing to do with your Dad trying to impress his customers.”  
“Shut up, Stilinski! We’re being attacked by fucking bandits!”  
“Yeah, I got that, actually, but thanks for the heads up.”  
“You’re gone when we get back, Stilinski!” Jackson shouted, “You’ll be out without a reference.”  
Stiles nodded, accepting that straight away. As a master, Jackson was a bigger dickhead than as an acquaintance. If Jackson sent Stiles home in disgrace, Stiles would be relieved.  
“They’re overtaking us!” Jackson shouted.  
Stiles nodded. “It’s OK,” he said, “They’ll probably just ransom you back to your dad. You’re worth more alive than dead.”  
Jackson rolled his eyes, “Do you know nothing, Stilinski? God, you’re such an idiot!”  
“Yeah, and you’re practically a philosopher….”  
“Do you know where we are, dickhead?” Jackson growled.  
That pissed Stiles off a bit more. “I…”  
But Jackson didn’t let him finish. “These are the Marshlands! They’ll know about my father! They think they’re freedom fighters! They hate everyone who can call themselves a gentleman!”  
Stiles bit his lip on his retort; that Jackson was as far from being a gentleman as it was possible to be, but he knew the stories. There were bandits that hated the rich above all else, and those loyal to the King even more.  
“Swap clothes with me!" Jackson snapped.  
Stiles scrunched up his nose.  
“Er, no,” he said.  
“Swap clothes, asswipe!” Jackson shouted. “They won’t bother with a commoner like you.”  
“Yeah, that does nothing to persuade me to get my clothes off,” said Stiles.  
“Get your fucking clothes off, Stilinski! You’re going to be me!”  
“Why?” Stiles groaned.  
“Because when they see me in those rags you call clothes, they’ll let me go. They don’t care about peasants and servants!”  
Stiles decided now wasn’t the time to say that peasants and servants were very different in the eyes of peasants and servants and instead said “Do you seriously think that I’m just gonna go with this plan? The one where I get to be the one in more danger?”  
“Stiles!” Jackson moaned, now down to his perfectly shaped torso, “They’ll just slap you around a bit, then you can tell them who you really are and they’ll forget about you. They’d kill me! Or demand some impossible ransom from my dad! They'll see that yours has nothing worth taking and let you go. Get over yourself!"  
“But…”  
“Look, jackass,” said Jackson, “Take your clothes off before I hold you down and rip them off.”  
Stiles glared, but knew he was no match for Jackson in a physical fight. He began undressing, “If I get killed by bandits while pretending to be you, you better treat my Dad like he’s fucking royalty for the rest of his days, or so help me God, I will be back to haunt you forever!”  
“Yeah, yeah,” said Jackson, shoving his nice shirt at Stiles, even as the carriage came to a lurching halt, “if you die, your dad will be rich. He’d probably think that was the best of all worlds. No useless halfwit son, and lots of money. More than he ever dreamed."  
Stiles seriously considered taking his own shirt back, but Jackson had grabbed it already and was pulling it over his own head. Stiles made a rude gesture in his direction as he pulled Jackson's nice short over his head.  
"'Pants too, idiot!" Jackson snapped shoving his own down. Stiles held in a smirk at the thought of what any bandit would think if they can in now. But he obeyed his master, and dutifully handed over his pants.  
"Mr Whittemore?" called a voice from the carriage door.  
Stiles stared at Jackson. Jackson stared right back.  
"That's you, dickwad," he hissed.  
"Oh, yeah. Uh... Just a second," said Stiles to the door as he pulled Jackson's pants on. They were stupidly soft and ill fitting, and made Stiles want to writhe in discomfort.  
"I'm afraid I must demand that you exit the carriage, Mr Whittemore," said the voice, "we have urgent business with you."  
Stiles shivered, "Just a sec!" He shouted again, and whispered "what the fuck am I supposed to do?!"  
Jackson smoothed a hand through his hair, "Just be your usual smart ass self," he sneered, "You're a crap servant, so this might just work."  
Stiles gave Jackson his least servant-like expression, "You're a crapper servant!"  
Jackson pulled the ragged sleeves of Stiles' shirt straighter on his wrist. "Just because you're a walking rag and bone wagon doesn't mean all servants look like they've walked through a bunch of hedges."  
"Yeah, well, mostly they can manage a tiny shred of humility, too," said Stiles. Because no one could mistake Jackson's arrogance for a servant's obedience.  
"Coming from the most impudent servant I've ever met!"  
"It's called charm, dickhead, you wouldn't know anything about that!"  
Jackson's hand was about an inch from smacking him when the door opened, and both young men's gazes flew to where a young black man was looking at them with ease and confidence.  
"Mr Whittemore," said the man, addressing both of them, "His most gracious majesty would crave a word with you."  
Jackson snorted. Stiles didn't. He just rolled his eyes. These guys weren't just bandits, then. But he was pretty confident they hadn't been stopped by the actual king.  
"Why do you laugh?" asked the man, voice still calm and confident, though maybe now more cold than before.  
"King!" Jackson repeated, "You work for the Hale family, I take it?"  
"Yes, Sir," replied the man, "the rightful royal family."  
Jackson made a derisive sound at that, and Stiles decided the massively insulting tone he was using needed to stop before they both became too annoying to ransom and too much fun to kill.  
"My servant means no disrespect," he said, doing his best Jackson impression, aiming for a drawl and a casual stance, "he is merely an ignorant boy, brought up on the propaganda of our home town and without the grace to show good manners to people who can kill him very easily."  
The last words were directed at Jackson alone, but he was just glaring nastily at Stiles, no doubt burning at the 'ignorant' comment.  
Stiles couldn’t let himself worry about that right now. “We shall come to, er… his majesty,” he said, aiming for a gracious half bow, probably looking slightly drunk.  
The black man raised his eyebrows at him, and Stiles got the feeling he was missing out on something, but he returned the slight bow, and stood back to allow them out of the carriage.  
Jackson looked at Stiles expectantly, as though he were expecting Stiles to go check the steps. Stiles rolled his eyes, and shook the expensive shirt he was wearing. Jackson glowered again, but climbed out of the carriage, putting a hand out offensively at Stiles. Stiles ignored the hand and climbed out too.  
“This way,” said the man, politely, indicating the road, where Stiles could see that a small semi-circle of riders had gathered. Their own coachmen were nowhere to be seen, and Stiles did not consider that a good sign.  
The riders were watching them. Stiles noticed they’d no attempt to hide their faces. That was probably not a good sign either. He tried not to let his fear show.  
“Mr Whittemore, I presume,” greeted a man at the centre. He was one of the older members of the group, definitely over thirty but otherwise hard to place. He looked strong, capable and in charge. Stiles had to stare a good moment before he realised he was expected to speak. He was unused to being expected to speak. Usually he was speaking when he was expected to be quiet.  
“Uh, yeah,” he said, “That’s me. Whittemore. Totally my name.”  
The leader of the rebels smiled, and made quick eye contact with the man on his right. Stiles tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed that that guy was beautiful. “And do you know who I am, Mr Whittemore?”  
“Uh…” said Stiles, looking at Jackson, knowing he’d said something on the carriage. Was he supposed to know who this guy was? “I’m guessing some sort of well-spoken bandit or something? Based on the whole, well-spokenness and bandit-like activity.”  
The leader smirked. The guy next to him frowned. Jackson mumbled “Idiot.”  
The leader turned to Jackson, “And who is your friend?” he asked.  
Jackson flinched at the wording. Stiles smirked. “Uh, not so much a friend. More a hapless fool I’ve taken to looking after. Funny story actually, I found him on a street corner, selling his wares for a few pennies. I couldn’t let him stay there, a guy like him would starve before someone wanted a bit. So he's my servant now. A peasant. Yeah.”  
Because right now, he would take small pleasures where he could. Like insulting Jackson while Jackson couldn’t fight back right now was something like eating honey while waiting for a bear to maul him.  
The leader of the rebels laughed, “That’s quite a tale. I’d heard you were quite the genteel young man. I’m surprised to hear such coarse words from you.”  
“Uh, yeah,” said Stiles, embarrassed, “I like to let people think that, but I’m secretly quite a dickhead.” Except that didn’t work. If he was now insulting himself as Jackson, he’d just suggested he himself had been an out of work rent boy. He did his best to ignore it. It was hard being witty under so much pressure, “So, um, who did you say you were?”  
The leader gave another smirk to his friend, and said, “I, young Mr Whittemore, am Peter Hale, son eldest son of the Hale dynasty, and rightful King of this land.”  
“Oh,” said Stiles. Because he assumed he was meant to say something.  
“Oh?” said the woman on Peter Hale’s left, “That’s all you have to say?”  
“Er…” said Stiles, “I don’t… er… your majesty?”  
The woman scowled, but Peter Hale merely shook his head. “It matters not. You are our guest, Mr Whittemore. I’m afraid I must keep you prisoner and demand ransom from your father, it is a sad necessity that we must raise funds to restore us to the throne, but do not fear; your stay shall be comfortable.”  
“Oh,” said Stiles, not sure if he believed the words, “Uh, thanks? Your majesty?”  
Jackson rolled his eyes, “Seriously?” he hissed at Stiles.  
“As for your servant,” said Peter Hale with a smirk. “He is a handsome enough boy, but we have not the food to spare. He will fetch no ransom as a servant. Let any who want their way with him, take him now, then we’ll hang him.”  
“What?” Jackson shouted.  
“I’m afraid it’s necessary. Funds are low. My soldiers are missing the young flesh available in the cities since our lands were invaded, and I cannot afford to keep useless people. Who wants him? Or shall we just set the scaffold now?”  
There were a few laughs from the men, as Jackson shouted, “You… you savages!”  
Stiles could just stay quiet. He didn’t have to watch. Jackson had done plenty of horrid things in his life. He was a bully, and no doubt, would take over his father’s business and become an even bigger bully, with more people’s livelihoods in his hands. He would not be missed by anyone except his mother, and that was only an assumption on Stiles’ part. Stiles could just stand back, wait until he could go home, and then claim he had had no power to do anything. He most definitely didn’t have to die in the place of Jackson world’s-most-dickish-bastard Whittemore. He did not.  
A soldier came forward and took Jackson’s arm. Jackson punched him, and started, unsurprisingly, shouting loudly that Stiles was the servant, that he was Jackson Whittemore. He basically started screaming it. He had no issue putting Stiles between him and death. Why should Stiles?  
“Come now, servant, it will be quick,” said Peter Hale.  
“Oh, fuck,” whispered Stiles. Because he was an idiot, but not actually evil. “Stop!” he said, “That’s not my servant. I mean, I’m not… I mean… fuck!” He was going to die for Jackson fuckhead Whittemore, “I mean, I’m Stiles, the servant. He’s the dickhead Jackson. Fuck!”  
“Oh?” said Peter Hale.  
“Yes,” said Stiles, wishing he could have been born without a conscious. Like Jackson, “He’s Jackson Whittemore.”  
It took him a second to think that his best option was probably to run, but by that time he was pretty much surrounded by foot soldiers who seem to have come from nowhere. “Fuck!” he repeated.  
Peter Hale smirked once more at his companion, “Bring him here,” he told the soldier.  
Stiles’ arm was taken none too gently and he was pulled forwards towards the man who called himself King.  
“What is your name boy?” said Peter Hale.  
“Stiles,” Stiles replied, seeing no reason to die with a lie on his lips.  
“Well, Stiles, how do you feel right now?” Peter Hale asked, which Stiles thought was particularly morbid of him.  
“Pretty shitty, actually,” he replied, honestly.  
“Descriptive,” said Peter Hale, “I believe you have caused some strife in my ranks.”  
“Oh, whoop de doo,” said Stiles.  
“It seems that Erica now owes Boyd a series of clean up duties. And my nephew here owes me, what was it we agreed Derek?”  
The handsome man beside Peter muttered something far too quiet for Stiles to hear.  
“Ah, yes, a performance of the national anthem wearing women’s clothes. I look forward to it.”  
“Great,” said Stiles, “You know, you don’t have to kill me for me not to cost anything. You can just let me go.”  
It was a lame hope, but Stiles had to go for it.  
“Alas, our situation is still a closely guarded secret,” said Peter, “Letting you go would be too big a risk to the security of myself and my followers.”  
“Yeah, but I’m totally lost right now,” said Stiles, “I didn’t even pay attention when they were telling us the destination, let alone the route. I’ll just wander in the woods for a while, then whether I get home or not doesn’t matter, because I won’t know where I came from.”  
“Nice try,” said Peter, “But no. You and your master will accompany us now.”  
Stiles didn’t answer. He hadn’t failed to notice the slight change in plan, but he most definitely didn’t want to question it.  
“Boyd, Isaac, please secure our guests. We will return to camp to create our ransom demand.”  
He turned his horse, forcing Stiles to stumble back out of the way. A young man with fair hair took his arm and led him to a horse. Stiles clambered up clumsily but quickly, in case anyone decided he needed to ride in a more humiliating way. The blond guy climbed onto his own horse beside him, and said “Hands.”  
“Hands?” said Stiles, “Yeah, I’ve got hands, thanks.” He noticed the handsome man, the one Peter had called Derek, was watching them from a small distance, presumably supervising the securing of the prisoners. He had distracting shoulders.  
The blond guy rolled his eyes, “Give me your hands, I need to bind them.”  
“But…!” Stiles began to protest, but quickly gave up. He sighed, but pushed his hands out towards the blond guy, who promptly wrapped them in rope. It wasn’t tight, but it was effective.  
“And I need to tie this around your eyes,” said the blond guy.  
Stiles groaned, looking at the thick black cloth, “How am I supposed to steer the horse?”  
“I’ll guide it,” said the blond guy. “You’re getting a better deal than your master.”  
Stiles turned, curiously, and found that Jackson hadn’t climbed onto his horse fast enough, and was bent over it, hands tied behind his back, feet tied together and a bag on his head. If the muffled sounds he was making were an indication, he had been gagged too.  
“You know what, I don’t mind a blindfold,” said Stiles.  
“I thought you wouldn’t,” said the blond guy.  
The cloth went round Stiles’ eyes easily.  
“I gotta say,” said the blond guy’s voice, “Was it Stiles?”  
“Yeah,” said Stiles.  
“I’m Isaac,” said the blond guy, “And Stiles, seriously, I’m impressed. I’d have kept quiet.”  
Stiles grumbled. The whole thing had been pretty anti-climactic in the end. “So you guys had a bet on who was Jackson?”  
“No,” said Isaac with a laugh, “We all knew which of you Jackson was. They took a bet on whether or not you’d admit it.”  
Stiles pulled a face, and was annoyed it would be hidden behind his blindfold. “Seriously? That whole thing was just a game? I thought I was going to die!”  
“Nah,” said Isaac, “Peter doesn’t do games. He wanted to know what your character was.”  
“My character?” Stiles repeated, “Why would he care about that?”  
“Well, he doesn’t want cowards in his army, does he?” said Isaac.  
“Oh,” said Stiles, “Wait, what?”  
The horse began to walk. Stiles’ bound fingers clung to the saddle for fear of falling off backwards. He clung with his legs. Somewhere behind them, Jackson was complaining loudly into his cloth gag, and they were taken to the secret hide out of an insane bastard who thought he was King.  
Stiles realised it could have been worse.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles did not manage to keep a track of where they were going.  Not knowing where the horse would step next gave him a headache and made him feel queasy, and the constant swaying motion disoriented him; he couldn't tell what was part of a turn and what was just a step.  He could hear Jackson making a bigger fuss not far behind him, which was probably reasonable enough given his positioning.  

Stiles decided the best thing was to distract himself by talking.

"I just wanted to say, you know, seeing as how I'm not dying in the next few seconds, and it might be relevant, but that whole thing about the rent boy was totally a joke.  Neither of us are rent boys. Or ever have been. I'm an indentured servant.  My dad is a watchman, and I was going to be a watchman too, or maybe apprentice to someone in town, but me and my friend Scott, he's great, we heard that there was hidden treasure in this cave just out of town, but apparently that was Mr Whittemore's land, so when we were caught, they said we were trespassing. I mean, I got caught. I didn't give Scott away. Actually, I shouldn't have said that Scott was there. That was dumb! Forget I said it! He wasn't there! I made it up. It was just me."

"So you were given to Jackson as punishment for trespassing?" prompted Isaac.

"What?" said Stiles, confused momentarily, being unable to see who was talking, "Oh, yeah.  Eight years as his servant. It's not really a punishment. I mean, it definitely feels like a punishment, but it's like, I'm supposed to be learning morals from him. I mean, I say supposed to because, well, you've met him."

"Yeah," said Isaac.

"It's like learning to draw from a blind man," said Stiles, "But it's cool, I figured I already have plenty of actual morals, so I'll just quietly spend my days making life slightly more annoying for him until he says I can go home.  Not like, obviously more annoying, because that would end in actual physical pain, but just enough that he'll be slightly happier if I've left, you know?  So, who are you guys?"

"Well, I'm Isaac," said Isaac.

"Yeah, I got that when you said 'I'm Isaac,'" said Stiles.

"And I'm a soldier loyal to the Hales."

"Right," said Stiles, "Look, Isaac, I don't want to seem ignorant here, but..."

"But you haven't heard of the Hales?" Isaac supplied.

"Well, yeah," said Stiles, "I mean no.  I mean... I hadn't heard of the Hales before like five minutes ago."

"They are the rightful Kings of this land," said Isaac.

Stiles frowned, because he knew that wasn't right. "Yeah, about that..."

Isaac interrupted, as though he knew exactly what Stiles was thinking, "They were deposed twenty years ago in a bloody coup.  There are only a handful of Hales left, now, but Peter is determined to take back what is his.  He waited for Laura, Derek and Cora to grow strong enough to fight, and he built up his army.  Soon we will be a force to reckon with."

"Oh," said Stiles.  "Yeah, I wasn't born twenty years ago."

"Nor was I," said Isaac, pleasantly, "Derek and Laura were little children, Cora a babe in arms."

Stiles hummed, thoughtfully.  "And has kidnap been the family business since then?"

Isaac laughed, "Not at all. We have been forced to live through nefarious means sometimes, but mostly we hunt and fish and even farm, too."

"Right. And how come  _you're_  here, Isaac?" Stiles asked.

"Me?" asked Isaac.

"Yeah, you," said Stiles, "If you weren't even alive when the Hales were Kings, why do you fight for them?"

"I, uh, I guess I ran away," said Isaac.

"Ran away from what?" asked Stiles.

"Home," said Isaac, "My dad. He was... he wasn't very nice, so I left and Derek found me and invited me to stay with them. He said I didn't have to fight, but... I don't know, in comparison to how I was treated before, I just kind of, wanted to... “ Isaac trailed off, but he had no doubt in his voice.

"How long ago was that?" Stiles asked, curiously, trying to look in the direction of Isaac's voice and not try hopelessly to figure out where this Derek was, because beautiful and with a soft spot for waifs and strays?  Not fair.

"About a year, I think," said Isaac.  "I mean, it was spring then and it's spring now, and we've had a winter in between, so... yeah. About a year."

"And you never thought about going home?" said Stiles, "In that year?  Never thought this guy was a bit of a mad man and maybe you'd be better off finding a job or something?"

Isaac laughed, "Firstly, my life is a hell of a lot better now than it was. And secondly, that guy who you think is a bit of a mad man, can totally hear you right now."

"Oh," said Stiles, "That's good to know.  Thanks.  Great. Shit."

There were a number of laughs around him.  And then Peter Hale's voice calling, "You're lucky my authority can survive the unthoughtout comments of a serving boy, Stiles. I hear the punishment for dissent under the current regime is quite harsh."

"Totally," said Stiles, "I mean, the only time my dad ever got really angry with me was when I said something about how unfair it was when they arrested old Mrs Wilker for some letter her husband wrote.  Not him, obviously, but the royal guard.  He kind of ordered me to stay out of it.  He got really upset, actually, I mean he never orders me to do stuff.  So, I kind of made a point of recording all the arrests after that, but I never let anyone find out. Until I got lumbered with Jackson. He's a bit of a time stealer."

Jackson grumbled something that sounded remarkably like a threat through his gag, and Stiles realised he probably should be nicer to Jackson if neither of them were actually going to die.  
"I mean, he uses a lot of his time to teach me morals," Stiles corrected, then realised, from the laughter around him, that he probably sounded pretty sarcastic, "I mean..."

"Can we gag him too?" interrupted a new voice.

"Hey!" Stiles snapped, "Rude!"

"Derek!" Peter admonished, "Our young guest may not know that you jest."

"I don't jest," said the voice of Derek, a sneer of derision, "We gagged the other one."

"Yes but this one's funny," said Peter, happily, "if we give him enough rope he'll hang himself."

"Still totally rude," Stiles mumbled, "I'm totally a wit, you know. I'm really funny and clever, people just can't see past the whole servant thing. But that's OK, I guess. All great artists were unappreciated in their own life times."

"See?" Peter replied, "He just told us we'd find him funnier if he were dead. He's charming." 

"I think you slightly misinterpreted my words there, jumped to some massive conclusions that weren’t there," said Stiles, over more laughing. 

"I think Derek needs a servant," Peter said conversationally, "he doesn't seem able to shave himself. Maybe young Stiles will do him some good." 

"Yeah, sure," said Stiles, with a shrug, "I'm ok with slightly annoying someone else until they want rid of me."

But his words were undercut by a growling sound.            

"Derek!" said Peter, an obvious warning in his voice.

"Uh," said Stiles, massively uncomfortable, and really hoping they were passing some angry dog.  But he doubted it.

"Enough," snapped Peter, "Stiles, Mr Whittemore, welcome to your home for the next few weeks."

Hesitantly, Stiles lifted his bound hands to his blindfold, and when no one stopped him, he pushed the cloth away from his eyes.  

They had arrived in a wooded grove, green and lush and filled with great tall plants, trees, and bushes and dotted with simple canvas tents. It looked pleasant enough, but damningly temporary.

"Seriously, you've stayed here for twenty years?"

"Of course not," said Peter, patting his horse, "Until a few years ago, we lived in a castle in the far west of the Kingdom, but now we have begun our campaign to regain our throne and needs must. Are you sure you don't want him Derek?"

Derek growled, a lesser copy of his previous one, and turned his horse in another direction.

Peter smiled, "Well, more for me, then.  Boyd, please secure young Master Whittemore in the dungeon, and Isaac, please take young Stiles to my tent."

"You have a dungeon?" said Stiles, slightly awed.

"Well it's more of a cage, really," said Peter, his grin growing wider, "Dungeon makes it sound more foreboding. Don't worry he'll be warm enough, and we have an interest in keeping him healthy."

"Er, OK..." said Stiles.  Then his brain caught up with the rest of Peter's sentence.  "Wait, what?"

Peter had moved on, "I will join you in a few moments, Stiles, but I must speak to my captains about our new arrivals and take their security reports."

"Wait, your tent?" said Stiles, then added hopefully, "So, am I  _your_  servant now?"

"If you like," said Peter, somehow letting his teeth show. "Though your tasks won't be limited to those traditionally expected of a servant."

Stiles shivered.  Soldiers were disbanding, wherever they were going, Isaac approached him, and the black guy, Boyd, was leading Jackson, still hanging over his horse, off to his temporary home, "Uh, is this like... should I be..."

"Fine, I'll take him."

Derek had returned, almost at a canter.  He rode forward and took the reins of Stiles' horse from Isaac.  

"Are you sure, nephew?” said Peter, with a small smile, “I’m certain that I would find plenty of uses for him.  I did not mean to twist your arm.”

“Yes you did,” said Derek.

“Uh,” interrupted Stiles, “I don’t think I fully understood this conversation.”

“No,” said Derek, “Come on.”

“I don’t really have much choice right now,” said Stiles, as his horse was led further from the group, the blindfold still looped around his head and his hands still bound.

Derek merely grunted. 

He rode, and pulled Stiles’ horse, to a tent that looked much like the others and gestured towards it lazily.

“This is mine. You’ll sleep here until you go home,” Derek said.

“Er, OK,” said Stiles.

“You don’t touch anything,” said Derek, firmly.

“Ok,” said Stiles.

“And you don’t talk.”

“That’s a bit… um, I mean, I can try?”

Derek gave him a level stare that did not bode well for the future of Stiles’ continued existence, “Go in, get some rest,” Derek instructed.

“Uh, Ok,” said Stiles, “But could you, uh, you know…”

He shook his bound hands, and mimed losing his balance, nearly losing his balance in the process.  Derek repeated the stare that Stiles was just going to hope was his face and not specially designed to show Stiles how short his life was going to be.

“Uh,” said Stiles again.

Derek gracefully dropped from his horse to his feet. Stiles tried to pretend he wasn’t massively jealous of that skill, and hoped he wasn’t going to make himself look too ridiculous when he tried himself.  In three long strides, Derek was next to Stiles.

“Swing your leg over,” he instructed.

Stiles bit his lip and tried to cling to the saddle and swing his leg at the same time.

“No like that!” Derek growled, “No just… let go of the…”

Stiles let go of the saddle, tried to swing his leg, and nearly fell off.  “Nope,” he said, “not happening. Can you… uh…”

“Oh for…” Derek grumbled, and grabbed the crook of Stiles arm and tugged. Stiles fell with a squawk into Derek’s arms, one foot getting trapped on the saddle.  From an awkward sideways position on Derek’s chest, he saw Derek roll his eyes, and tug again, this time pulling Stiles away from the saddle.

“You know,” said Stiles, conversationally, “It might have been easier just to untie my hands. Or something.”

Derek glowered at him, and practically threw him to his feet.  “Tent,” he said, “Now.”

“But… my hands…” said Stiles, looking at his hands, then back up at Derek, in what he hoped was an endearing manner.

“Are fine just the way they are,” said Derek. “Once you’ve proven you’re not here to kill anyone then I’ll untie you.”

Stiles’ mouth dropped open, “Dude! You guys kidnapped me!”

Derek shrugged, “Doesn’t mean you aren’t dangerous,” he said.

“No, but it means I’m probably not here to kill anyone!”

“Just… get in the tent,” said Derek.

“And do what?” said Stiles.

“Wait,” said Derek, shoving Stiles towards the tent.  He climbed back onto his horse. “I’ll have someone bring you some supper later. Do not leave the tent.”

“Where are you going?” Stiles called after him.

“None of your business,” said Derek, and he rode off.

Stiles gaped after him for a moment, then shouted, "That's so rude!"

A passing soldier on horseback laughed at him. Otherwise he got no answer.

…xxx…xxx…

It took Stiles quite a while to get the tent open. It had been laced closed, which proved a massive challenge to undo with hands tied together, and once he’d succeeded he made the decision that there was no point trying to close it again.  He let the edges flap in the breeze, and let the moving slivers of light show him his temporary home.             

He decided to look around all of Derek’s things. Because Derek had ordered him not to, and he was quite happy to slightly annoy Derek. He’d basically promised to be slightly annoying to Derek for as long as they were at the camp, already, and it would be dishonest not to live up to the agreement. 

Derek’s tent was disappointingly sparse.   Stiles guessed that told him enough about Derek’s personality, and Stiles soon got bored of looking at canvas and the old dirty shirt. He slumped onto the thing that, if was feeling generous, might be called a bed, and sighed. He blew fidgeted for a while, then turned onto his side. Then the other side. Then he stretched out across the sheets as much as his bound arms would allow. Then felt something underneath one of the sheets.

Stiles was curious.

He pulled up the sheet and pulled out a small cloth bag. Inside that he found a book.

It had obviously once been beautiful, leather bound with gold leaf edgings and writing, but it had been worn by time, and blackened with soot, like someone had dropped it next to a fire.  The title was obscured on the spine, so Stiles opened it to check inside.

“What did I tell you?” growled an angry voice.

“Uh,” said Stiles, freezing but not jumping at the return of Derek.

“You do not touch anything!” he said.

“Well, you could, like, let me go home,” said Stiles, “Then I wouldn’t be able to touch anything. Because I’d be somewhere else.”

“You think you can return without Jackson?” snapped Derek, “I should just have let Peter have you.”

Stiles did not like the sound of that one bit.  “Uh, sorry?” he said, “I just… get bored?”

Derek growled again. He snatched the book from Stiles’ hand, and took the bag, putting it over his own shoulder. “If I can’t trust you, you can go in the cage with Jackson.”

“No!” Stiles protested, “I’m sorry! Please!”

But Derek ignored him. He grabbed Stiles arm and pulled him back out of the tent.

“Derek, I’m sorry,” Stiles pleaded, trying his best to sound reasonable. “He’ll beat me up, do I really deserve that for looking at a book?”

Derek didn’t answer, just pulled him out into the open where a few men were practicing fighting.

“Derek,” Stiles tried again, trying to make eye contact, even though Derek was only showing him the roughly unshaven cheek, “I can be a servant, just give me stuff to do! I bet you’ve never had to do nothing all day!”

Derek grunted.

“OK, so it wasn’t all day, but you’d told me it was going to be!” Stiles protested, “Come on! Don’t put me in with Jackson! He’s the worst!”

“He’s not,” said Derek.

Peter accosted them, cheerfully falling into step beside them.

“Bored already, Derek?” he said.

“You can’t trust him,” said Derek, “I’m locking him up.”

Peter looked Stiles up and down appraisingly. “What did he do?”

Derek growled.

“You know, most people don’t growl,” said Stiles, “Is it like a condition or…?”

“Are we playing twenty questions?” Peter asked, happily ignoring Stiles, “Am I meant to guess? Alright, did he steal from you?”

“No,” said Derek. “Drop it.”

“Ah, did he try to run away from us? Try to hurt you maybe?”

“No,” replied Derek, “I said drop it.”

“Hmm,” said Peter, “Because I am more than happy to take him off your hands Derek. Really. He is young, pretty and vivacious, and almost definitely a virgin. He would really help with my tedium.”

“Uh…” said Stiles, because his virginity was totally not up for discussion.

Derek stopped walking. “He’s not trust worthy.”

“I don’t need to trust him,” said Peter.

Derek growled.

“He is right, Derek,” said Peter, “You do growl a lot. You know that sort of thing scares the humans, doesn’t it, Stiles?”

Stiles’ breath caught, “Uh…” he managed.

“I’m locking him up with the other one,” grumbled Derek.

“Then I will take him,” said Peter.

Derek glared. Stiles did not talk, because he was not sure any of the options were good ones.

“Fine,” said Derek, “I’ll tie him up properly.”

“Whatever turns you on,” said Peter, pleasantly, and smiled.

“Uh…” said Stiles.

But Derek was already tugging him back the way they came.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for comments and follows. Sorry it's been so long. I keep trying to do lots of things.


	3. Chapter 3

Derek was strong.

Stiles was quite used to people being stronger than him. He was a skinny guy; he knew a lot of people who would beat him in a fight. But Derek was a whole new world of strong. His grip on Stiles' arm could break it, and Stiles could do nothing but be exactly where Derek put him.

With his hands still bound, Stiles stumbled after Derek. He was beginning to wonder if maybe, actually, Jackson had gotten the better deal. He was just getting some alone time, while Stiles was being dragged around by a man who hated him without cause, and pulled from place to place by a man who could snap him in two, who could hold him still with a single hand. And was blurring the lines between fear and attraction.

"Dude, I'm not a rag doll!" Stiles cried. "And you're not a five year old girl! You're hurting me!"

"And I should care because you were so careful of me?" Derek replied.

That was a very unfair comparison, Stiles thought, "I looked at one book!"

"Well don't!" Derek growled in his face, "If I wanted you to look at my stuff I would have told you to."

"I said I was sorry!" Stiles protested, "I had nothing to do! I can't just sit around doing nothing all day! I'll go crazy!"

It was the wrong response. Derek rounded on him. "Then go get fucked by Peter! See if I care!"

Stiles felt his stomach twist. His brain stopped working for a moment.

Derek rubbed a hand over his face, and breathed out. "Sorry, I'm sorry. Just... just stay out of my stuff."

"OK," said Stiles, quietly.

"I just... I don't like people in my space."

"Well, I didn't choose to get in your space," said Stiles. "I'd happily just go home."

Derek shook his head. "You can go home when Whittemore pays the ransom. We'll drop you somewhere, so you won't find us."

Stiles bit his lip. He didn't want to share all his thoughts, his concerns for his father, who would be out of his mind with worry, his fear of these people and what they wanted. He didn't question the phrasing that had given him extra cause to worry, like the reference to 'humans', the predatory gleam in Peter's eye that Stiles had no way of dealing with. He just blinked, trying to get a hold of himself, of his emotions before he shared them with this stranger.

Derek sighed again. "I'll find you something to do," he said. "Come on, now."

His grip on Stiles' arm was gentler now, but Stiles was pretty sure he still wouldn't have been able to break free. He followed Derek, as he had no other choice. 

At one point, Derek stopped and talked quietly to a soldier. The soldier nodded, giving Stiles a curious look as he did, then the soldier went one way, and Derek and Stiles carried on, on their journey. Back to the tent.

Derek sat Stiles on the floor, then started rummaging around inside the tent. Stiles watched him, warily. His plan of being slightly annoying flitting through his head to taunt him for his own stupidity.

Eventually, he just couldn't hold all his questions in at once.

"When, um, Peter said..."

"While you are here, you will address him as 'Your majesty' and refer to him as 'His Majesty'," said Derek.

"Oh," said Stiles, "Sorry..."

"Very well," said Derek. His back still to Stiles, as he looked for who knew what.

"So..." said Stiles, "When His Highness referred to me as... um... human..." 

"You don't know?" Derek asked, turning to him with a hard look.

"Um... know what?" Stiles replied.

Derek paused for a few moments, searching his face. "Is this a ploy?"

"What do you mean by a ploy?" Stiles repeated, "Why..."

"They knew," Derek interrupted, "The people knew! We never hid it."

The curtain of Derek's tent opened, and the soldier from before popped his head in. "My Lord?" he said.

"Thank you," said Derek, putting a hand out for whatever the soldier had in his hand.

"Is everything alright?" asked the soldier, handing something over.

"Yes," said Derek, firmly.

The soldier looked curiously at Stiles once more, then closed the tent behind him. Stiles stayed where he was. 

"Here," said Derek, and he threw some clothes at Stiles. Stiles put his bound hands up, more so they didn't hit his face than to catch them. "Each of those needs some sort of repair."

"Oh, right," said Stiles.

"Here is needle and thread," said Derek, "If you need the scissors you will ask me."

"OK," said Stiles, "Um..." he held his bound hands towards Derek, hopefully.

Derek glared, but knelt down next to Stiles. He untied the knots on Stiles' wrists, and Stiles sighed in relief, until Derek pulled both his ankles together.

"Hey!" Stiles cried.

"You will stay where I put you," said Derek. He wound the rope around Stiles ankles.

"And what if I need to... you know..." Stiles asked.

"You will tell me, and I will take you," said Derek, simply, tying a fierce looking knot in the bonds.

"But..." Stiles began to protest.

"If you try to untie them, I will retie you to something," said Derek, "Maybe a pole."

"But..."

"You know what your options are, I take it?" said Derek, coldly.

Stiles thought of Peter's expression. Maybe having his feet tied wasn't so bad. He nodded, glumly, and picked up the first item of clothing, a shirt with holes at the elbows. 

"Good," said Derek. "I'll be over here."

Derek retreated the few metres to the bed, which he sat on, and he pulled out some parchments from about his person. Stiles decided conversation was probably over for now, though he still had no answers. He knew, until Derek trusted him, (though what Derek feared he might do was still beyond Stiles), Stiles would have to toe the line. He could darn a few socks and wash some clothes until they were released. It was no worse than his ordinary life. And while Derek seemed to prefer him immobile, at least he wasn't subjecting Stiles to a series of insults and mild physical assault, so in many ways, this was already better than being a servant to Jackson.

He threaded the needle and began to work.  


* * *

  


Except he had the attention span of a fly.

He was barely halfway through the first shirt when he started to twitch with boredom. He had always been like this. Personal servants were supposed to repair their master's clothes, but Stiles always managed to persuade someone else to do it. Generally by claiming incompetence. He wasn't sure how someone like Derek would react to that. So instead he tried, again, to make conversation.

"So, if I'm supposed to call ... um, His Majesty, His Majesty, what am I supposed to call you?"

Derek grunted. "Sir is fine."

"Sir?" said Stiles, "Sir Derek."

"Yes."

"Sir Derek the grumpy," Stiles muttered.

"Just Sir," said Derek.

Stiles flushed a little. He used that voice in Jackson's presence a thousand times, and Jackson had never had a better reaction that demanding what he had said. It was a surprise to be heard.

"Sorry," said Stiles. "Though... not proving the name inaccurate, Sir Derek."

"Get on with your task," Derek snapped.

"Yes, Sir Derek," said Stiles.

He did a few more stitches, biting his lip, tapping rhythms with his feet, anything to relieve the monotony.

"You know," he tried, conversationally, "Sitting on the floor with your legs together like this is super uncomfortable."

Derek didn't reply.

"I mean, try it, du... Sir," said Stiles, "My stomach muscles are furious right now, and my legs are getting cramp."

Derek must have been made of stone because he continued to ignore him. 

"I think my legs are going to sleep," said Stiles.

"I could dangle you from the roof, would that improve matters?" Derek asked, quietly.

Stiles snapped his lips closed. Then he said, "Maybe I'll just shut up."

Derek grunted. 

Silence returned to the tent once more. Stiles kept stitching, trying to keep going, trying not to let his nature get the better of him. But he was so curious. Why had Derek got so upset about a book? Why was Peter insisting he stay with Derek, when Derek would obviously be happier if Stiles was out of his way? Why had they used the word human to refer to Stiles as though they weren't? What did Derek think he should already know?

Maybe they were just crazy.

He was saved from another misguided attempt at conversation by a general call to dinner. He sighed in relief, and put down his sewing. Derek stood and stepped over to him. Stiles heartily lifted his legs, excited at the thought of being freed at last. Derek stooped and undid the knots, and Stiles grinned and kicked his legs in the air. He tried to jump to his feet, but stumbled. Derek caught him. 

"Uh," said Stiles, "Pins and needles."

Derek hummed, and placed him back on his feet. "Hands," he said.

Stiles groaned, "Seriously?!"

Derek didn't repeat himself, but looked at Stiles expectantly, rope still in hand. 

"Do you seriously think I got myself indentured in service to a douchebag in the hopes that, one day, we would both be kidnapped, but not killed, so that I could get the chance to hurt some family I've never heard of?"

This time, Derek shrugged, so Stiles rolled his eyes and put his hands forward. Derek wrapped the ropes around his wrists once more, and Stiles tried not to look into his eyes. Because even if Derek was a grumpy, non-human crazy guy, he was still fucking beautiful. And his eyes were distracting. In fact, his general facial area was proving a bit of a hindrance to Stiles' ability to talk sense.

"You're totally paranoid, you know that?" he added to Derek's chin.

"No," said Derek, "I'm careful."

Stiles pulled a face, a particularly childish one. He figured he'd earned the right with the being kidnapped through no fault of his own thing.

"Come on," Derek grumbled, pushing him towards the outside world. Stiles obeyed, and they once again made their way through the camp. 

It was darker now, the tents mostly just shadows, and flaming torches lined the central paths and led them towards a fire. Soldiers were gathered around some temporary looking tables, both men and women, and food was being dished out. It looked like a huge amount of food, a stew, maybe made from rabbit, but it was probably only just enough to give everyone a bellyful. 

Derek pushed Stiles to sit down next to Isaac, and then, with a gruff "Stay there," went to collect some food. Stiles hoped he would get some. Then thought he should probably ask, "Um, is Jackson getting fed?"

Isaac laughed. "Of course, he'll get whatever's left over when we're finished."

The black guy, who was on Isaac's other side, shook his head, "That's not true. I've taken him enough food and water for the night. He'll be fine."

"Oh," said Stiles. He didn't add ‘good’. "I suppose it's too much to ask if he's just... you know... a bit uncomfortable?"

Isaac and Boyd both laughed that time. "I'll show you later, if you want," said Isaac.

"Uh, maybe... not?" said Stiles. "Uh, could either of you...?" he waved his bound hands in front of him. Isaac looked at them with sympathy.

"If Derek wants you tied up, no way either of us are going against it," he said.

"You can understand him not wanting to trust you," said Boyd.

"Why?" Stiles demanded, "Seriously, I never even chose to be here!"

"Derek just assumes everyone's trying to kill him," said Isaac. "He won't sleep unless he knows every single man backwards and is armed to the teeth. That and the whole hearing thing should be enough, but..." Isaac shrugged.

"Hearing thing?" asked Stiles.

"Eat," said Derek, shoving a dish at him. Isaac didn't elaborate, and Stiles had to choose between taking the bowl in his bound hands or having stew all over him. He went for the first option.

He saw the issue with this quickly enough.

"How am I supposed to eat?" he asked.

"Use the bowl as a cup," replied Derek, holding his own bowl and spoon completely comfortably in his own two free hands.

"You know, you're a bit of a..." Stiles began.

"You're still keeping him bound?" interrupted Peter, before Stiles could insult his captor.

Derek grunted. Isaac and Boyd rose to their feet respectfully.

"Honestly, Derek," sighed Peter, "I enjoy a bit of bondage as much as the next red blooded man, but while he's eating?"

Derek grunted once more.

"Well, I suppose I gave him to you, so how you keep him is up to you," Peter sighed. "And those wrists do suit a bit of rope. Anyway, I thought I should tell you, I dispatched Erica and Cora with the ransom demand an hour ago. Hopefully they deliver it and return with a response before dark tomorrow."

Derek looked up, "You sent my sister to deliver a ransom note?" he snapped.

Peter rolled his eyes, "She has been bored silly for weeks, Derek. Apparently you won't let her do anything."

Derek glared, "I want her to be safe."

"Yes of course," Peter replied, "But she won't be safe until we have our lands back. And two women will attract less attention than men."

"Or they shall be attacked..."

"Any attacker would rue the day they tried," said Peter. "I have things to attend to. Derek."

Peter nodded his head, and Derek, reluctantly, copied. When Peter retreated, Boyd and Isaac found their seats once more.

"For what it's worth, he's right," said Boyd, "Erica and Cora could take you down between them. No thief on the road would stand a chance."

"And the army of the usurper?" said Derek, "How do you think they'd fair against two hundred men?"

"They won't have to," said Isaac, "No one will even look at them."

Derek grunted into his stew. Stiles picked up his own food so he wouldn't have to comment.  
  


 


	4. Chapter 4

In the capital, the central office of Whittemore Ltd was easy to find. It was one of the taller buildings in the wealthy heart of the city; a monument in stone to wealth and power, an idol to domination. During the day, it loomed over the houses near it, casting its shadow over streets and streets of lesser buildings and homes. At night, it could block a hundred stars from view. It was second in stature only to the imperial palace and the prison. Security there was tight, almost impenetrable. Luckily for them, the two women of the Hale army did not need to visit the office.

They knew the home address of Mr Whittemore. He had once been a simple lawyer. He'd studied the law and knew how to make an argument. Now he owned the law firm, which dealt almost exclusively in property disputes, and had also moved into money lending, giving companies the funds needed to expand, and taking the profits when they did, or absorbing the assets when they failed. Some said there were other, less reputable areas that interested Mr Whittemore, but it mattered little to Erica and Cora. Whittemore was rich, and a supporter of the usurper. He would pay and deserve the loss.

The locks and servants at the tall and grand Whittemore townhouse held no barrier to the women. They ascended to the roof, and found a window unlatched. They slipped inside, knowing there would be no servant in that room, as it smelled of the servant boy back at camp. They could easily navigate the house, find the Master without encountering any other person on the way. The men watching the doors remained undisturbed, and when the women walked into the Master's library, he was the first and only person to have seen them.

"What?" was his greeting.

Clearly he thought they were servants.

Cora spoke. Her voice was quiet but confident. She was a born princess, after all. "Mr Whittemore, we have your son called Jackson."

Whittemore looked up at that. "What?" he said.

"You heard," said Cora, "We have your son, Jackson. He is our hostage until we receive ransom."

Erica stood upright, eyes on Whittemore, ears on every other sound in the house. No alarm was rung, no bell called a servant to the study.

Whittemore's heartbeat shot up. His fear became obvious. "What... what do you want?" he asked.

"Money," said Cora. "The amount is written here. We will find you when it is time to pay. You have three days to find the money. You may wish to do be ready as soon as you are capable."

"But..." Whittemore flushed. He was still sat at his desk, like he was too surprised to think about moving. Cora and Erica waited for him to finish his sentence. He blinked a few times.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” he asked.

Cora sighed, “We didn’t think you needed proof. He’s late back from his journey, isn’t he?”

“A matter of hours,” Whittemore replied, “He could be back tomorrow…”

“He won’t be,” said Cora. “But you can discover that for yourself if you wish.”

The women turned to leave. Whittemore knew the deal. Their task was completed.

“I don’t…” Whittemore began. “You won’t escape.”

The women didn’t turn.

“You won’t get out of town! The royal guard will pursue you. I shall pay anyone who will take the money to stop you. They’ll have you surrounded in seconds.”

And he began to shout.

Erica rolled her eyes. “He’s pretty stupid,” she said quietly, as they began to run, “We could kill Jackson, just for that.”

Cora hummed agreement.

“We won’t, though,” she said.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that.”

They didn’t leave the same way now that people knew where they were. There was no reason to. They left via a second floor window, jumping down to the street before Whittemore could gather support. Then they began to walk.

They were trying to look normal, unhurried, like they were just citizens on their way home. Very few people were on the streets at that time, so they couldn’t merge into the crowd, but they did manage to look carefree. Even when the bells started to ring.

They behaved as anyone would at the sound of alarm bells. They looked around themselves in alarm and searched the streets around them. Heads appeared in windows, peering at the streets. The few people who were on the streets suddenly vanished, into houses or shadows.

Erica took a turn, then another, knowing Cora was behind her. Cora had been a baby when she was taken from this city, but Erica had grown up here, a cowering and sickly child, ignored or teased by all who saw her. They stepped down an alley, dark and deserted, then emerged at the other end into another street of businesses.

There were still very few people around. It didn’t alarm Erica, though. The streets had always been quiet at night. The thing that alarmed her was the two men approaching them.

 

………

 

Stiles knew it wasn’t safe back home. Not for anybody really, but especially not for anyone who appeared weak. Stiles’ father did his best, kept a lot of people safe, brought a lot of people justice, but there were people he, even as he'd risen to Commander of the Watch, had no power over.

The Royal Guard were basically the personal army of the royal family. And they were, in all ways that mattered, above the law. The watchmen could watch, could arrest petty thieves and dangerous criminals of all kinds, but not a member of the guard. The guard could do exactly as they chose, and could not be prosecuted. After a great deal of heart-breaking soul searching, Stiles’ dad had been forced to order his men not to arrest them. Stiles remembered the day dad had given that order – he’d sat with the strongest liquor he could get his hands on and stared at the floor. His misery and anger infected Stiles, too, and eventually, under the influence of the alcohol, dad had explained. One of the watchmen had been killed. He’d unsuccessfully tried to arrest a guardsman. It hadn’t even worked; there'd been no charge, but the guardsman had pursued the watchman anyway. The watchman had paid the price for doing his job, and John Stilinski had admitted defeat.

Stiles didn’t mention any of this to Derek. He drank his stew quietly, while Derek glowered at his own. Isaac and Boyd also fell quiet. Maybe they were communicating silently, but Stiles didn’t try to look. And he tried not to think about what had happened to Heather.

When he’d finished, he put the bowl down and waited for Derek to start manhandling him again. He was pretty much recovered from his earlier shock. It was probably time to push again.

“So… how many people have you kidnapped?”

Derek gave him a very irritated look.

“We do what we must to raise funds for our cause,” he said.

“Funds, sure,” said Stiles, “But the support of the people? Not so much.”

Isaac replied before Derek got a chance. “Really? You think the people are going to be bothered that Jackson Whittemore spent a week in a cage?”

Stiles screwed up his nose, “Uh, no, he’s not the people! I’m the people.”

Boyd laughed.

“Peter only kept you because you impressed him,” said Isaac.

Boyd snorted, “Is that what you think?”

“Yeah,” Isaac replied. “You heard him in the carriage. Lacking any sort of humility and worried more about his dad than himself. I was impressed.”

“Peter would have been more impressed if he’d let Jackson die,” said Boyd.

“Wait, you heard us inside the carriage?” said Stiles, surprised.

“Can we cease the discussion of my uncle’s morality." Derek interrupted. It should have been a question, but it wasn’t.

“Sorry, Derek,” Isaac replied, quickly.

“Sorry, Derek,” murmured Boyd, though not quite so believable.

Stiles was still caught up with the hearing thing. "The carriage was moving, and the wheels were like… and you guys were so far… how could you have heard?”

Isaac’s jaw dropped. Boyd looked simply amused.

“He doesn’t know?” said Isaac.

“He hadn’t heard of them,” said Boyd, “of course he doesn’t know.”

“Shut up,” said Derek. “Are you done eating?”

“Yeah…” replied Stiles.

“Good,” said Derek. He stood, and grabbed Stiles’ arms.

“He wanted to see Jackson,” Boyd interrupted.

Derek groaned, but pulled Stiles in a slightly different direction.

“Um… not sure I ever actually said that…” said Stiles, but despite having apparently excellent hearing, Derek didn’t seem to hear him.

The cage wasn’t far from the food area, and it was definitely a cage and not a dungeon. It was a structure made of wood in vertical poles fixed deep in the ground and braced at various points by metal horizontal rods. It was large enough, really, as big as most rooms in normal houses, and had as much of a bed as Derek's tent did. But Jackson would probably not agree with Stiles’ definition of ‘enough’ and ‘normal’.

Jackson was sat in the centre of the cage. He looked exhausted. Stiles could imagine him trying to keep the whole camp in front of him, trying not to be snuck up on, spending all the time Stiles had been in the tent, standing and trying to watch everyone.

But at least he wasn’t tied up.

He must have heard Stiles approach, because he stood up now, though he seemed weary.

“So,” he greeted, characteristic sneer in place, “You’re a whore, now, Stilinski?”

“Fuck you!” said Stiles, remembering that he really should have let the bastard hang while he had the chance.

“No, they fuck you, don’t they?” said Jackson, “All the crazy bastards are faggots too, and want a go on your skinny arse. Are you the closest to a pretty girl they’ve got, Stiles?”

Maybe Jackson forgot about his resolve to stay in the middle of his cage, maybe he just stepped forward a bit further than he intended in his attempt to hurt Stiles, but he must have got that bit closer to the bars than he thought.

Derek's movements were so fast, Stiles didn't even see them in progress. One second he was imagining horrible things happening to Jackson, including red hot pokers in uncomfortable places, and trying to think of a better comeback than a repeat of the previous one, and then Jackson's cheek was pressed against one of the bars. It bloomed with an ugly shade of pink much more slowly than Derek had moved.

The rebel's hand was now tight around Jackson's neck. Jackson gripped the bars, fear sudden and obvious. The parts of his face that were not recently the victim of impact were also turning unnatural shades, though these closer to purple.

"This boy saved your life," Derek scowled. "You are pathetic scum with no sense of loyalty or honour. You would have let him die without lifting a finger, but this boy is a hundred times your better."

Jackson was starting to sob.

Derek wasn't finished. "If I ever hear of you mistreating this boy, insulting him in any way, I will find you and kill you."

Jackson sobbed harder, "You can't kill me! I'm..."

"Worth less than him," Derek interrupted.

"No!" Jackson interrupted, "I'm..."

"You're a worthless coward, and Stiles is worth a hundred of you," said Derek. "Say it."

"N... no..."

"Say. It."

Jackson's eyes were tight shut, as though he could escape if only he couldn't see what was happening. His hands were useless now, flinching against the bars.

"I'm a w... worth..."

"Worthless coward," Derek repeated.

"Wor...thless... cow... coward," Jackson repeated, through his sobs.

"Carry on," said Derek.

"An' ... an' Stiles is... worth... hun'red... ofme."

Derek nodded, satisfied, and dropped Jackson. The younger man dropped to the floor, shaking and gasping. He had just enough energy left to give Stiles a look of deepest loathing, before he was focused entirely on getting his breath back.

"Well, thanks, Derek," said Stiles, "Now I can never go home."

Derek was unaffected by any of it. He grabbed Stiles' bound wrists once more, and said, "He isn't worthy of you."

Then he started walking. Stiles had to walk or be dragged. He chose to walk.

***

The royal guard were dressed in rich blue uniforms, but Erica could have recognised them purely by the arrogant sway in their gait.  Cora must have heard the change in her heartbeat, and she moved closer, ready to act in tandem with Erica.

The royal guardsmen prowled towards them. The taller leaned to the smaller and made a joke. Both women shared a look at the infantile and crude humour of the men, but pretended not to have heard.

“You here for us, girls?” said the smaller of the guards.

“No,” said Cora, “We are on our way home. Please excuse us.”

“What, you won’t even spare us your time?” asked the taller. “We defend the nation from barbarians and bandits, and you can’t even share a smile!”

“They must be frigid,” said the smaller.

The women had stopped walking. They could probably tear these two men apart before either could blink, but they would lose all semblance of cover if they did.

“The bells are ringing,” said the taller guard, “We should take them somewhere safe.”

“You are right!” said the smaller.

“I thank you for your concern, but that won’t be necessary,” said Cora. “We are nearly home now.”

“We insist,” said the smaller guard. He stalked up beside Cora, and gave her a hideous look.

“Get lost, perve,” said Erica, taking Cora’s arm and steering her forward.

The guards didn’t give up. They followed, “Ungrateful little bitch, aren’t you?” said the taller.

“We offer our help, and you insult us,” said the smaller.

Cora couldn't help but let her claws extend.

“We should…”

They were interrupted by another voice. Another male.

“Guards, can you not hear the alarms?”

A middle aged man in a brown uniform, looking far more like a normal citizen approached. He was followed by a younger man in the same clothing, but looking less certain about approaching.

“Get lost, Watchman,” said the taller guard.

“I've just you seen Commander in the Bellesteads,” said the watchman, “Looked pretty put out, too. There seems to be an emergency.”

The Guardsmen made eye contact with each other. They were clearly thinking through their options.

“I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of the Commander,” said the younger watchman, “I hear few people can be found afterwards.”

The guards shifted on their feet. “Come on,” said the taller, eventually, “They’re frigid anyway.”

They prowled off, not down the alley that would have led quickly to the Whittemore home, but down the street in search of the cause of the fuss.  Cora let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding.

“Are you alright?” asked the older watchman.

“Yeah,” said Erica, “Just a couple of idiots.”

The watchman gave her a stern look, “A couple of idiots with pistols and swords. You two should be home by now.” It was a telling off, but one laced with concern. Both girls warmed to this man quickly.

“We’re nearly there,” said Cora.

“Where are you going?” asked the younger watchman. “We can walk you.”

“Just along here,” said Erica, “We don’t need an escort.”

“I’d be happier if I knew you were safe,” said the older watchman, “Please.”

Erica checked once with Cora. Cora weighed her options, and decided.

“Our uncle lives along here,” she said, “We won’t be long.”

“Who is your uncle?” asked the watchman.

“A doctor,” said Cora, trying to be evasive.

The watchman sighed. “I get it, you’ve had a scare from people in uniform, it’s not easy to trust another guy in a uniform straight after. We’re not here to hurt you. You two, go home, straight home.”

“We will,” said Cora.

“Off you go, then,” said the older watchman.

The women turned on their way. They knew they were still being watched, but there was no getting around that. They could run and outstrip the watchmen in seconds, but that would have highlighted their abilities. That would have circulated their description to all members of the watch before the night was out, and they needed to stay in the city for three days. The safest thing to do was to cause no concern in the mind of the watchmen. When they got to Alan Deaton’s door, they had no choice but to climb the stairs and knock. At least they could hope that they were far enough from the watchmen that they wouldn’t remember which house.

Deaton opened the door and let them in without a word.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

The Hale camp at night was just like the day, but darker and quieter. People were awake, still working around fires, as Stiles was taken back to Derek’s tent. They were chatting in a relaxed way, but they looked up curiously at Stiles every time he passed.

Derek made him use the facilities. They weren’t really facilities. A hole in the ground and some water in jugs.

“So… how many times have you kidnapped people?” asked Stiles, curiously after he and Derek had finished, and were once more making their way to the tent.

Derek still didn’t answer, but Stiles was getting the impression that maybe the answer was very low. That was probably not a good sign. If they had never done this before, things could go wrong. And if anyone was disposable, it was Stiles. His stomach turned.

Derek pushed him back into the tent, and laced up the opening behind them.

“And now we have a slumber party?” said Stiles, trying hard to hide his anxiety.

Derek shrugged, without eye contact. “I’ve only got one bed,” he said, “And you’re staying tied up.”

“That’s fine,” said Stiles, “I don't mind the floor. It doesn't bother...”

“No,” said Derek. “You could get up in the night, get loose.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re paranoid?” asked Stiles.

Derek ignored the comment. “I’m going to tie you to me.”

Stiles blinked. “That’s some creepy shit, Sir Derek.”

“If you move in the night, I will feel it and wake up,” Derek told him, simply.

“What happened to me being worth a thousand Jacksons?” Stiles protested, indignantly.

“It was a hundred,” Derek corrected, “and that makes you worth a hundred cockroaches. Congratulations.”

Stiles scowled, “Can we just discuss this please?” he said, “I’m not trying to hurt anyone. I just want to go home…”

Derek pushed him hard on the chest, and he fell backwards, legs and bound arms flailing pathetically like an upside down tortoise. He landed on the bed to raised eyebrows from Derek. His heart had sped at the feel of falling, and he didn’t calm straight away. Beds were not just for sleeping. He locked alarmed eyes on Derek, terrified of his next move.

“Get some sleep,” Derek instructed. He picked up Stiles’ foot and removed his shoe, then repeated the process with the other foot.  Stiles stared at him.

“If you untied me, I could do that myself,” he said.

Derek ignored him. He pushed Stiles further up the bed, and then turned away. Stiles fidgeted trying to get comfy, but in moments his breath was stolen from him.

Derek undid his jacket and shirt, and then, in one swift motion, he pulled them both off. The sight of his bare back was enough to make Stiles’ brain completely fail to function.  The shape of it, wide shoulders slimming to a strong waist, muscles, tight and powerful under perfect smooth skin, and a very un-Prince-like tattoo. Stiles worked very hard to get his brain away from impossible images of licking the pattern.

Derek turned back to him slowly. To Stiles, it was like the man was trying to scramble his brain completely. The gradual reveal of the front, another mindboggling and mouth-wateringly perfect expanse of flesh. Pale and strong and edible.

“Stiles!”

Stiles closed his mouth with a snap. Then managed an unconvincing “Nothing.”

Derek rolled his eyes, and took off his pants, which helped Stiles not a bit. He forced himself to stare at the cloth above his head. 

Stiles waited as patiently as he could with his body and mind misbehaving. Stupid body and mind. And eyes. But stupid thoughts particularly.

He felt the bed dip beside him. It wasn't big enough for two people, really, and he knew when Derek was settling down because he could feel the heat from his body, like he'd sat by a fire. It added a hundredfold to the temptation to just snuggle up against the beautiful man, but Stiles was not going to do that! No. Absolutely not. No.

He was right there!

This was cruel and unusual punishment. And Stiles hadn’t even done anything worthy punishing!

“You smell weird,” Derek grumbled.

“Thanks,” Stiles replied.

“Your emotions are … confusing.”

Stiles scowled at the ceiling. “I’m in a very confusing situation.”

Derek grunted. “Not confused. Confusing. I don’t understand them.”

Stiles decided answering would be a waste of time.

“You obviously find me physically attractive, but you’re anxious, too. What are you planning?”

Stiles groaned. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Derek didn’t respond. Stiles felt the rope being pulled. He didn’t need to watch Derek wind it around his own wrist. Obviously Derek was completely mad. If Stiles were to put time and energy into a plot to kill a bunch of people, it would be a damn sight better plan than this. And it almost definitely wouldn’t involve spending a day mending other people’s clothes while tied up.

“I will know if you try to escape,” Derek told him.

“Yeah, I got that,” Stiles replied, sulkily.

He didn’t think he would sleep, because he was so constantly aware of Derek’s proximity, his bound hands, the line that joined them together, but at some point he must have done, because he had weird dreams about his dad and Scott. A huge monster followed them as they walked home. Stiles tried to warn them, but they couldn’t hear. It stalked them from a distance. Then it pounced.

He woke up with a start.

He held down the panic attack. There was no monster, nothing stalked the people he loved through the night, nothing attacking them. It wasn’t real. The fear swarming in his stomach was the product of his sleeping mind.

Hands were around him. Holding him to a warm body. Someone was muttering, telling him to hush. He could hear the feet of other people running towards them, men shouting.

“It’s fine,” someone shouted, right next to his head, “Go back to sleep. Kid had a nightmare.”

Stiles’ breathing was too harsh, the air too cold or too hot to help him. Whose arms were they? Why?

“It’s OK,” breathed Derek, his hands rubbing Stiles’ arm. “It’s OK.”

Stiles was slowly calming. The arms really shouldn’t help; one was still tied to his own. But they were soothing in their own way.

Derek hushed him gently.

“What, not gonna accuse me of faking a nightmare?” Stiles asked, angrily.

Derek sighed.

Stiles wasn’t going to let it go. “You don’t think I’m making it up so that you’ll trust me so I can stab you in your sleep?”

“I could smell the nightmare,” said Derek, “Now shut up and get some sleep.”

“Nice,” Stiles breathed.

“Sleep,” Derek repeated.

Stiles grumbled, but lay back down. The monster was fading from his head, anyway. His dad and Scott were fine, just too far away.

 

* * *

 

“You made the right decision,” said Deaton when they were all sat about a table.

“I’m not so sure,” said Cora.

Deaton accepted her words. “True, giving away your location could have been a danger, but I still suspect that Whittemore will keep this matter secret. He will suspect the palace will endanger his son by attacking. And even if he does seek help, he considers himself above the Watch. The Watchmen will not be involved in any search for you.”

Erica nodded. Cora still worried. “What if you’re wrong? What if Whittemore decides he wants all the armed men in the city at his side?”

“No watchman will share the location of two women without good reason. I know the chief watchman, and he is more than aware of the nature of the Palace guards. He will not allow harm to come to anyone without extremely good reason,” Deaton told them.

“Does he know Whittemore?” Cora asked.

Deaton shrugged. “They are from different social classes, so it seems unlikely.”

Cora fidgeted. She was anxious. Erica didn’t seem to be, if her posture was to be believed, but Erica had learned to deceive people with her body language.

“I think we have no immediate cause to worry,” said Deaton, “Whittemore will want to pay up and get his son back. The amount is large but far from crippling to his enterprises. He has no reason to resist.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, thinking through their issues. The vet sighed deeply.

“There is nothing we can do, in any case,” he said, “We can only wait out the time and then collect. You are both more than capable of escaping from any awkward situation.”

Erica nodded. Cora bit her lip but did not disagree.

“We shall see what the morning brings,” said Deaton quietly.

…

* * *

 

When morning arrived, Stiles found that Derek’s arms were still around him. He also found that his fears had quietly slipped away during the night. 

Derek was an ass, maybe even a huge and horrible dickhead of an ass, but probably not actually evil. He didn’t seem to take any pleasure in Stiles’ predicament. If he had been going to take advantage, he surely would have done so by now.

He looked at Derek in the pale light sifting through the fabric of the tent. His face was fucking perfect. Like an ancient statue or something. Stiles would be happy to spend the day staring at that chin. Which was probably a sign of creeping, stress-induced insanity, but was not worrying enough to make him stop. The stubble alone incited fantasies of prickles against Stiles’ mouth and throat and thighs.

One of Derek’s arms was below Stiles’ head, like a pillow. The other was thrown casually across him. The muscles, works of beauty that they were, were relaxed, and Stiles really wanted to bite them. Another sign of probable insanity.

Without knowing how long his stay would be, Stiles couldn't be sure he would be able to get any sort of distance between himself and Derek any time soon. He could end up stuck here for months. Who knew how long it would take Jackson's dad to collect the ransom, and even when he did, whether that money would get Stiles home too. This could be Stiles' life now. Which meant he had to get Derek to be less of an ass. Now.

His first thought was to make the guy some breakfast. That sort of thing always cheered Stiles up. He could gather some ... stuff... Whatever they had to eat around here, and bring it back. For Derek to eat in bed. While casting appreciative eyes at Stiles. Which was as ridiculous as Stiles’ Lydia-Martin-notices-him-through-a-crowded-room fantasies.

It wasn’t relevant anyway. The rope was still strong on his wrists, and the other end round about Derek’s. If he tried to get up, Derek would be woken and he’d be pissed. Which was the opposite of Stiles’ objective. So that left the option of staying still, or staying still and pretending to be asleep.

He opted for the latter.

He knew he couldn’t stretch either, so he just wriggled his toes a bit, and tried to sleep.

His eyes opened of their own accord. They wanted to look at Derek. He had such a perfect fucking face.

And gorgeous pale eyes.

Oh shit, he’d caught him staring.

“What are you doing?” Derek growled.

“Nothing,” said Stiles.

Derek’s stare was way more intimidating than Stiles’ dad’s.

“Nothing!” Stiles repeated, “I was gonna pretend to be asleep until you woke up.”

The stare continued, which was very offensive to Stiles.

“I was!” he complained.

Derek grunted, “If you try to kill me, I will get in first.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Where do we get breakfast?” he asked.

Derek hummed, thoughtfully, “You go set a trap, wait until it catches something, kill it, etcetera…”

Stiles’ mouth dropped.

“Or there’s a river,” Derek suggested. “You could go fishing.”

“Uh…”

Derek’s mouth twitched.

Stiles stared. “Did you just… was that… a joke?”

Derek rolled his eyes and climbed out of bed.

“You made a joke?” Stiles cried, scrambling after him because his wrists were still tied to Derek’s arm, “You?”

“I make jokes,” said Derek.

“That’s contradicting everything you stand for, isn’t it?”

“Shut up, Stiles,” said Derek.

He began to untie his own wrist, but left the rope that held Stiles’ together.

“So, if you’re all light-hearted humour guy, now, maybe you could untie me?” Stiles asked, hopefully.

Derek gave him a level look. It lasted three seconds. Then he moved on. He got dressed while Stiles once again stared stupidly at him.

“Stop it,” said Derek, without turning back to him.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” Stiles protested, trying not to notice the perfect curve of Derek’s ass.

Derek turned to him with a raised eyebrow.

Stiles met his stare, rebelliously and said, “You stop it.”

The Prince frowned, but his lip twitched. Stiles decided it was hopeful.

They went out of the tent together, Derek’s guiding hand on Stiles’ shoulder. People were already about, obviously hard at work in the pale light from the sun hanging low in the sky. Some were making things, some were cooking. Derek nudged Stiles back towards the centre of camp, where the soldiers were gathered around the tables once more.

Isaac and Boyd nodded at them. Derek pushed Stiles down onto one of the benches.

“I get it,” said Stiles, “Sit where told.”

Derek grunted, and went towards the cooking pot.

Isaac looked at Stiles with a frown. “You didn’t… uh… you know.”

Stiles waited for a full sentence. Isaac looked at him expectantly. Boyd was frowning at him, too.

“What?” said Stiles.

Isaac and Boyd looked at each other. “I mean, did you … beg?”

“What?” Stiles repeated.

Boyd moved uneasily, “Derek… you… uh…”

“You know what helps with communication?” said Stiles, “Sentences. Full ones. Maybe some verbs?”

Isaac flinched just a tiny bit, “We might have expected that Derek would… you know…”

Stiles’ eyes widened, “Killed me?”

“No!” cried Isaac, “just… you know…”

Stiles shook his head, because he didn’t know what they were talking about.

“Heads up,” Boyd muttered.

A group were approaching, with Peter at their head. He saw Stiles and grinned, widely.

“This is going to be awkward,” Isaac muttered.

“Good morning, little captive,” Peter sneered at them, “I heard quite a disturbance last night, but…” Peter put his face right next to Stiles. Then he sniffed. Then he grinned.

“My, my, still… unused,” he breathed, voice low. “How … surprising.”

He did not sound surprised at all.

Stiles looked at Boyd and Isaac for some sort of explanation. They didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Even after his obvious attraction,” said Peter, “Derek cannot take what he wants.”

Peter smiled. “Poor boy,” he said.

Stiles looked at the others gathered. There were sad looks shared across the table. As Derek returned, people avoided looking at him.

“Good morning, Derek,” said Peter.

“Uncle,” Derek greeted.

Peter strode to him and put his hand on Derek’s shoulder. “You know, if you ever need help, my boy, you can always come to me,” he said, kindly.

The younger man nodded stiffly, “Thank you, Uncle,” he said. He did not make eye contact.

Peter smiled and patted his shoulder once again. He moved on with a pleased expression, greeting people at the table, then taking his own food somewhere else. Derek stood still for a few moments, then moved back to Stiles. He shoved a plate of meet and bread at Stiles, and took an unhappy mouthful of his own.

“What just happened?” asked Stiles.

Boyd didn’t look up. Isaac only looked at Derek. Derek grunted.

“I got you breakfast. You eat it before I do, or you don’t eat,” Derek grunted.

That wasn’t what Stiles meant. It was obvious that that wasn’t what Stiles meant. But he wasn’t getting anymore.

He grabbed his bread and shoved it into his mouth.


	6. Chapter 6

Deaton had just set out some breakfast when the knock sounded. A firm, law enforcer’s knock. The girls startled.

Deaton put a calm finger to his lips. Cora nodded. Erica moved closer to Cora, protectively.

Deaton shut them in the kitchen before he opened the front door. Cora and Erica listened in silence, on their feet, ready to flee.

“Sergeant,” he greeted. “Can I help you?”

“Looking for two women,” said the voice of the sergeant, “Seen any?”

There was a pause as Deaton held back the obvious responses to such a silly question. The Palace Guard were famed for making life unbearable for anyone who dared show anything but submissive cooperation, “Not any unaccounted for,” he managed instead.

“Mind if I come inside?” the sergeant asked.

“It’s not a convenient time,” said Deaton.

“I think you’d only stop us if you had something to hide,” said another voice, another member of the Guard.

Deaton paused a moment. “There are many things a man may try to hide, and many reasons why he may not wish to allow strangers in his home,” he said, “But that does not mean I have knowledge of the two women you seek.”

Erica moved first. She took Cora by the arm, grabbed the plates that gave evidence of their presence, and jumped from the back window to the alleyway below. They sat behind the low wall, listening to the conversation inside.

The guards, as Erica had suspected, barged Deaton aside and made their way into the house. The two girls could hear them making a methodical search of the house. They listened to the route they took, and knew exactly when the sergeant gave up.

“You see any strange women, you tell us,” he grunted, no apology for the intrusion.

“Of course,” said Deaton, “I would always assist the Watch with their enquiries.”

“The Watch?” the sergeant laughed, “We ain’t the Watch.”

“As if you’d trust the Watch with anything requiring loyalty!” said the second guardsman.

“You see anything you come straight to the Palace Guards," said the sergeant, "You got that?”

“Of course,” said Deaton.

They listened to the Guardsman leaving, and re-entered the house discretely before anyone could notice their movements.

“Whittemore went to the Palace Guards,” said Cora, “You said he wouldn’t.”

“They will find nothing,” said Deaton. “They have searched my house…”

“And if they search again?” asked Erica.

“Then you will hide again,” said Deaton. “There is not long now before you will be on your way. Just two more days.”

Erica nodded. Cora looked ready to fall down. Two days, to collect the ransom, then all they had to do was get out of town. Deaton gave them a reassuring smile.

Two days.

It was manageable.

 

…xxx…xxx…

 

As soon as dinner was through, Derek dumped Stiles on Boyd and Isaac and walked off.

Stiles stared after him. He had no idea what he had done now. Just that morning, Derek had seemed to find him funny, and then suddenly he was stiff and angry. He’d not even looked at Stiles when he’d instructed Isaac and Boyd to take him.

Isaac and Boyd walked on either side of him as they went about their business.

“What did I do?” he asked Isaac, as they walked.

Isaac shrugged, but didn’t look at him.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Boyd.

“You say that,” said Stiles, “But if I’m going to be murdered in my sleep, I’d rather know now so that I could… you know… try to avoid it?”

“You’re not going to be murdered,” said Boyd.

“It’s just a type of competition between Derek and Peter,” said Isaac. “Well… competition isn’t the right word.”

“What is the right word?” asked Stiles.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Boyd, “You won’t be here long enough for it to bother you.”

Stiles looked between them, both their faces stoic, thoughts clearly moved on to other things. “That’s not ominous at all,” he muttered.

The soldiers didn’t reply. Stiles looked about himself. “Where are we going?”

“To set some traps,” said Isaac, “And to check some others.” He looked at Stiles. “It will be quite a journey.”

Stiles’ nose wrinkled. “Will I get my hands back then?”

The soldiers exchanged another look.

“We shall see,” said Boyd.

They walked on, leaving the camp and making their way through the trees. They didn’t hurry Stiles, but neither did they go slowly. It was an incessant march, and within half an hour, Stiles was exhausted.

“Eugh,” he panted.

Isaac smirked, “You’re a servant. Surely you’re used to this sort of effort.”

“I’m a bad servant,” said Stiles, “I’ve made an art of doing things really slowly. And badly.”

Isaac shook his head. “Never fought for something you care about?”

Stiles shrugged.

They went deeper and deeper into the forest. Isaac started teasing Boyd about someone called Erica. It was sweet really, until it became clear that she was one of the women who had gone to the capital. Stiles tried to pretend he hadn’t had awful images about that, about what the Palace Guard would do to two women alone who were working against the King.

“So, how far to the nearest trap?” Stiles asked.

“Another mile or so,” said Boyd.

Stiles groaned. “Please undo these!” he said, gesturing with his useless hands. “They ache so much! I wanna bite my own hands off.”

“Derek…” Isaac began.

“Isn’t here!” said Stiles, “Please!”

Isaac looked at Boyd, who shrugged.

“It’s not like he’s gonna win any fights with us,” said Boyd.

“Hey, I might be like a crazy super fighter, for all you know!” Stiles cried.

Boyd and Isaac raised their eyebrows at him.

“I mean, nope, I’m totally not,” said Stiles.

“He would make a shit spy,” said Boyd.

“Yeah,” said Isaac.

Stiles held in another protest that would undermine his fight to get free. “Dudes, you’re killing me here!” he said.

Isaac smiled. “I’ll just show you why you don’t want to run,” he said. He held his fingers up in front of Stiles’ face, presumably, Stiles thought, because he was a nutter, and then his fingernail turned into a 2 inch claw.

“Fuck!” Stiles shouted, and fell over backwards.

Boyd caught him before he hit the rocky ground. “It’s OK,” he said. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

“Fuck,” Stiles repeated.

“You get it?” Isaac asked, “You can’t escape us.”

Stiles stared. “You… fuck!”                 

“Stiles, calm down,” said Boyd.

“What are you?!” Stiles demanded. His legs were not doing as he wanted, which was running at a million miles per hour away from these ... things.

“Werewolves,” said Boyd.

“What?” Stiles gaped, “Are you gonna eat me?”

“We don’t eat people, Stiles,” Isaac told him.

Stiles looked between them. “Really?” he asked.

“We’ve had you for a day, and we haven’t yet,” said Boyd.

“That’s not… you know…comforting…”

“It’s OK,” said Isaac. “Really.”

Stiles blinked. He wished he’d imagined it. He wished he was back home at his dad’s sneaking around with Scott. He wished he was anywhere but here. But here he was. He had no choice. He nodded. Like it was OK. Like it could ever be OK.

Hopefully, he held his bound hands toward Isaac. Isaac smiled, and sliced open the bonds with the claw. Stiles forced a smile and thanked him. They kept on through the trees. It was easier to walk now, with hands free to catch himself. But all the time, he was alert.

If he ran that way… they would catch him. Could he incapacitate them? He knew he couldn’t kill them. Even if they were monsters, like creatures from a fairy tale, Stiles hadn’t seen them actually hurt anyone. He didn't think he was capable of killing anyone.

But he needed to get away.

"I can hear your heart beating, Stiles," said Isaac. "Don't run."

Stiles shook his head, head down, but eyes flitting around himself.

"Seriously, Stiles," said Boyd, "Don't. You won't get anywhere."

Stiles nodded.

"Hush," said Isaac.

They all stopped moving. Boyd and Isaac stood still as statues, faces tense.

"Is it someone from the camp?" asked Boyd.

Isaac shook his head. Stiles felt his heart race.

“Back to camp?” asked Isaac.

“If they follow us…” Boyd warned.

“Lose them in the woods?” Isaac suggested.

“We have to try.”

Isaac put a hand on Stiles’ arm, and mumbled “Come on.”

Stiles looked back. He didn’t know how the werewolves knew someone was coming, but new arrivals were his best hope. A way to get back to his dad. And maybe mount a rescue mission for Jackson. If he felt like it.

But Isaac’s hand was guiding him right now, between the trees, away from the path

“Wait!” Stiles protested, “If people are coming, shouldn’t you find out who they are?”

Isaac shook his head. “More important we’re not found.”

“So you’ll tell Peter what?” said Stiles, “You didn’t do your job because someone was nearby but you don’t know who? It could be anyone.”

Isaac shrugged. “He’d be pissed either way.”

“It could be a threat to the camp!” said Stiles. “It could be someone on their way to kill him.”

Isaac looked at Boyd. They seemed to have a silent conversation.

“If you run, you won’t know who it is,” Stiles told them.

Boyd nodded.

“Right,” said Isaac, his whole demeanour changing. “Stiles, you stay back, stay behind the treeline.”

“We should keep him near us,” said Boyd.

“If we get him hurt…” Isaac started.

“Exactly. If he’s near us, we can protect him.”

“He can’t run like we can.”

“If he gets hurt because we lost him, you can explain it to Derek.”

“And if he gets hurt because he came with us, you can!”

“He won’t,” said Boyd.

The argument continued, very quietly, as they travelled between the trees, on paths that needed careful steps. It took time before Stiles, too, heard the sounds that had sparked this search. A small number of horses, travelling at a trot down the main path.

They were getting so close.

“Stay close,” said Isaac.

“They’re after Peter?” asked Boyd.

“Maybe…”

An enemy of the kidnappers.

“Are they from the city?” Stiles asked.

Isaac shrugged.

He saw a flash of armour nearby. His heart sped up.

Boyd looked at him sharply.  

Stiles kept as still as he could. He was too close to giving himself away.

The riders were getting closer.

He bit his lips. He only needed to get across the treeline before Isaac or Boyd could catch him. But suddenly, Boyd’s hand was over his mouth.

So much for escape.

The riders were close enough now that Stiles could hear chatting. Laughing, chatter.

“Argents,” whispered Boyd.

Isaac nodded, and spared Stiles a glare as they began to creep back the way they had come, pulling Stiles with them. Obviously they’d expected him to try to run, but Argent was the royal family of Beacon, their guards were completely mad but they would take him home. Stiles saw his chance, and he was not going to let it get away.

He bit Boyd’s hand as hard as he could. Just the millimetres it bought him were enough to get out a shout.

The hand was pressed hard against his face once more, but it was too late. The horses were being called to a stop. Isaac and Boyd had frozen in panic. Voices were shouting into the woods. Boots were landing as soldiers dismounted.

“Stiles, you’re an idiot,” Isaac told him.

“Run!” Stiles told them through the hand. However much he wanted to go home, he didn’t want these two dead. They’d done nothing to him.

Isaac shook his head, and then both he and Boyd were running, dropping Stiles like rubbish on the forest floor. Stiles didn’t watch them go so he couldn’t inform the soldiers who appeared through the trees barely a moment later. The new arrivals surrounded him, swords drawn. Stiles remembered how much he hated the Palace Guard.

“Stop! I’m a citizen! I work for the Whittemores!”

“Name!” demanded a soldier one of three who all held their swords in Stiles’ direction.

Stiles shouted his surname, showed them he was unarmed as clearly as he could, until one of them laughed. Apparently that one knew exactly who he was but enjoyed watching him squirm.

There were other soldiers, running through the woods around them, chasing after Boyd and Isaac.

“So, you were a coward while your master was taken by bandits, Stilinski?” one of the soldiers sneered. “Hid in the trees while they carted him off in chains?”

The words made Stiles freshly furious. “I nearly got hung for him! I did exactly as he said and then…”

“Save it for the general, Stilinski,” snapped one of the soldiers. “None of us care. Where are the Hales?”

Stiles took no time to decide. Neutrality was his role now. “I don’t know.”

The soldier curled a lip at him. “I don’t believe you.”

Stiles shrugged, “I was blindfolded all the way to camp. I’ve no clue where it is.”

The soldier still looked unimpressed, but his comrades were now returning from the woods, empty handed. Obviously Isaac and Boyd had outrun them. Stiles tried to pretend he wasn’t relieved. He shouldn’t be, should he? They were monsters who kidnapped him. He had every right to hate them.

The Guards dragged Stiles clumsily to his feet.

“Where are we going?” Stiles asked.

The soldiers didn’t reply, but one held his arm the wrong way, and dragged him back to the horses.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

So, the soldiers didn’t tie him up as they took him back to their own camp, which was one up on the Hales, but otherwise they do not share any of the kind words or humour Stiles was shown by Isaac or even Peter.  However, no one was quite as scary as Derek, which had to be a good sign, right?

They took him on the main roads, unlike Isaac and Boyd, who had wound through the forest with barely more than the tracks of animals to guide them. The soldiers swept along on the dirt and stones at speed, Stiles clinging to the back of one of the soldiers and trying not to imagine his head hitting the ground with a splatter. The trees flew by, but Stiles didn’t quite dare look in case a werewolf appeared between them.

He wondered if Peter could look like Isaac and Boyd had, all glowing eyes, teeth and hair. It would be a terrifying image. And that didn’t even begin to touch the idea of Derek.

But there was no point. He was on his way home now. Someone would pay Jackson’s ransom, and then everything would be back to normal. He’d never have to think about the Hales ever again.

He was taken to another camp. This one smaller than that of the Hales, probably just the temporary base of a small part of the Argent army. There was a large central tent that he was taken to, and pushed inside. He grumbled something about how humourless soldiers obviously were, added something to do with anger issues being an essential part of the selection process for the army, but it didn’t seem to make them more nor less rough with him.

“What’s this?” asked a man sitting at a table inside the tent.

He was fair haired, about the same age as Stiles’ dad, or maybe a tiny bit younger. His face was impassive as he looked at Stiles, though his voice suggested annoyance.

“It’s the Whittemore boy’s servant, Major,” said the soldier who had pushed Stiles along. “We found him in the woods.”

That made the man sit up slightly, gaze locking to Stiles’ face, maybe trying to gage him.

“You saw who took Jackson Whittemore?”

“Uh…” said Stiles. “Yeah?”

The man stood up, intense eyes on Stiles. “Sit,” he said.

Stiles didn’t move because the word didn’t make sense. A soldier behind him put a heavy hand on his shoulder and dragged him down onto a chair. The bruising of his backside was only secondary to the new spike of fear.

“Hey!” he shouted anyway, apparently still lacking necessary survival instincts.

The major stood before him, an impressive sight. His uniform was well maintained, but practical, and showed Stiles in no uncertain terms that this was an important man who still took a genuine part in combat. He was a powerful and threatening man. He towered over Stiles now, tall and impressive. He didn’t get closer; he was clearly confident he would need little persuasion to get Stiles to talk.

“What did you see?” The major demanded.

He was a soldier. He didn’t have Stiles’ dad’s way with people. But the armed guards certainly made his interrogation technique effective. So Stiles told the story, from the carriage to that point, leaving out only the sleeping arrangements and Isaac and Boyd’s revelation. The major watched and listened, face shrewd, marking every detail, every shift of Stiles features until Stiles doubted his own truth.

“So… then I shouted and the soldiers came and … here I am?” Stiles finished lamely, and with the inflection of a question.

The major said nothing for a moment. He watched Stiles’ face, he seemed to be reading his very soul. It was scary. Stiles had never been good with silences. He’d never been able to sit in silence. He tried to prompt a reaction, anything. “That’s… what you wanted? To know?  Right?”

The major continued to watch him. Stiles searched his brain. He was very close to sharing the other pieces of information. What did it matter if this major knew he’d shared a bed with a guy?  He’d probably had to do the same. Probably. Surely soldiers didn’t always get a bed each? Or… Stiles wasn’t sure.

“Tell me, boy,” said the major quietly, “what are you keeping from me?”

“Uh… nothing?” said Stiles, instantly regretting the upward inflection of his voice, “Nope, nothing else to say. Totally shared… everything.”

The major sighed. A sad sigh. An obvious sound of disbelief and disappointment. Stiles almost shivered.

“I feel it’s important that you know about the torturers we keep on staff,” said the major, quickly calmly. His voice was authoritative and confident. Stiles felt like he was talking to someone without a single doubt in their head about the morality of their choices. Even when they were threatening to have a teenager tortured. “They enjoy their work. I don’t like using them, I want to believe that when I ask a man a question, he will be honest with me, as I try to be. However, I know that my honesty is not reflected in all mankind. My country is too important to risk on the word of a boy I don’t know. A servant. I know you are hiding something from me. Do not make me take this further.”

Stiles shivered. His whole body shook. There was such honesty in the major’s eyes, Stiles could not doubt his words. Not for a second. He knew he was going to cave.

“Uh… I shared a bed with Derek?” he said, the words springing from him like water from a fountain.

The major’s lip twitched. “What?”

“…Uh… I … had to … share Derek’s bed?” said Stiles, “He didn’t trust me to… sleep… anywhere else… and… I’m… I was embarrassed?”   

The major’s lip twitched again. “You a virgin, boy?”

“Uh… will you torture me if I don’t answer?” Stiles asked with genuine panic.

The major smiled. “You just did.” He turned away from Stiles, apparently done with him. “The camp is no more than five miles from here. We go now, pack up. The boy will lead us…”

“Uh… I don’t know the way?” said Stiles.

The major turned back to him, “What?” he said, part question, part expression of anger.

“I don’t… know the way,” Stiles repeated. It wasn’t entirely a lie. He had followed Isaac and Boyd but the route hadn’t been his focus. And he had an appalling sense of direction.

The soldiers glared at him. Hard. The major stepped back to him. “I thought we’d got past the part where I needed to threaten you.”

“We did!” Stiles cried hurriedly, “I mean, it’s the truth!”

The major got closer, and Stiles shrank back into the chair.

“Seriously,” Stiles hurried to say, “I’ve got no reason to lie!”

“You could be protecting them,” the major suggested, “You might have… sympathy for their plight.”

“Sympathy?” Stiles repeated, incredulous. “They kidnapped me, made me think they were gonna hang me, kept me tied up for … for ages! I don’t even know what…” He shook himself. “I don’t know what they are.” He said it plainly, shivering a little, feeling like even that small admission was a betrayal, somehow, even though he owed none of them any loyalty. “I’ve got no reason to lie,” he repeated, lamely.

The major gave Stiles a hard look. An assessing look that made Stiles feel frozen solid.

“You saw their true nature?” the major asked.

Stiles nodded, shakily. “I guess? I don’t know…”

The major leaned closer, “Then you understand why we have to eliminate them. They are a threat to us all. They could kill a hundred men without breaking a sweat of exhaustion nor feeling a moment’s pity. They are monsters without empathy, and they want to take our home. You understand that, boy?”

 “Yes!” said Stiles, because he didn’t want to contradict the men with all the weapons.

The major stepped back. “You’re going to lead us as far as you can. Then you will stay back during the fighting and you will never mention what you see.”

“Uh…”

 “You saw the nature of our foe,” said the major, “They’re not even human, yet they claim they should rule us. They are a mighty enemy, but we must be rid of them, for the safety of our home and those we love. They are unnatural and wrong, and the world needs them gone.”

Stiles neither agreed nor denied. He was thinking of the claws and the glowing eyes. He was thinking of Isaac, alone except for the Hales. He was thinking of Derek, and his secrets, the increased hearing, the way he could read Stiles’ thoughts without understanding a single one, and yet he was so human. So vulnerable.

“You have to be part of their destruction, Stiles,” said the major, “You have to protect your people.”

Stiles bit his lips, confused by the words and his knowledge and what he’d seen. As much as he didn’t believe the Hales were evil (at least, he didn’t believe Derek, Isaac and Boyd were evil,) he did believe they posed a threat. They believed themselves royal. They believed they had a right to rule. Peter was building funds and strength, and when he did, he would invade Stiles’ home.

Stiles’ home was flawed. The rulers were tyrannical, and there was corruption on a huge scale, but… it was better than a war.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”

It left a sour taste in his mouth. But he had a father and friends and a home. They were the only things that should hold his loyalty.

The major took him to a tent and told him to get some rest. Stiles only nodded and obeyed.

…

Their third day in the capital came. Cora and Erica had remained inside at Deaton’s. They’d waited impatiently, irritating each other, bored and restless. They had no knowledge of the search for them beyond the reports Deaton received from gossipy neighbours. It seemed to have dwindled. It seemed they were not a priority, or more likely, the small attention they’d received was only to keep Whittemore from complaining.

They awoke at dawn, preparing themselves quickly, and bidding farewell to Deaton. They made their way to the Whittemore house, mixing in with the early morning business owners preparing their wares, and delivery boys visiting the big houses, and going unnoticed by most and not seeing even a patrol of the Watch nor the Palace Guard. Once they reached the house, they were growing in confidence.

Once again, they skirted around the outside of the building and found the same route to the roof and the same window by which they’d entered before. They listened for servants, checked that they were all working. The house was quiet, though a few people were around, doing quiet tasks. The only obvious movement was pacing in the study. Mr Whittemore smelt extremely anxious.

They made their quick and silent way to the study, again finding no obstacles. Even the study door proved unlocked, and Whittemore sat alone inside.

They greeted him politely. He looked at them with red-rimmed eyes and pale cheeks.

“Three days?” he said.

Cora nodded. “Are you ready?”

Whittemore glared hard at her, “Do you mean, am I ready to pay for you not to kill my only son?”

Erica flinched. Cora shrugged. “We would not kill him,” she said. “We would simply keep him from you.”

“And yet, there would be no way for me to tell the difference,” Whittemore sneered. “Your friends all got a conscience, have they?”

“Just pay up and get it over with,” snapped Erica.

“The money is there,” Whittemore said, pointing at a bag. “I hope it brings you nought but ill.”

Erica scooped up the bag. Cora nodded her respect.

“Jackson will be put on the correct road home once we are safely back,” she told the man. “He’ll be unharmed.”

Whittemore only glared harder.  There was nothing else to say, no reason to stay, so Cora led them out. Erica followed without comment, and Whittemore only glared at their backs.

“That was easy,” Erica said as they walked.

Cora didn’t reply. She was alert, and uncomfortable. Had the Palace Guards spent one night looking for them, and then forgotten all about them? Had they disbelieved Whittemore when they had not been found? Had Whittemore told them to stand down in fear for his son’s safety? It was plausible, but Cora was tense.

“Keep your ears open,” she said.

“It’s all fine,” said Erica, “We’ve got the money, now we just have to walk out.”

Cora could have rolled her eyes. “Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true,” said Erica.

They came to a sudden halt. They could not cross the wide open corridor.

Cora swore. The line of mountain ash crossed the whole corridor, cutting them off from the front door. They turned, went back the way they’d come. A second line cut them off on the other end of the corridor.

They retreated back the way they came, up the stairs to the bedroom they entered by. They clambered up onto the roof, the money grasped tightly in Erica’s hand. The roof gave them a better view of the streets where a line of Palace Guard were surrounding the house.

Cora swore again. They clambered up over the roof, but a sudden volley of arrows soared through the air. They caught and dodged, ducking low, but another volley followed, and suddenly Cora let out a gasp of pain.

Erica put an arm around her waist, and pulled her to the edge of the building. The archers were aiming again, as the women stumbled along. They tumbled from the roof, tucking and rolling to land in a heap.

Cora moaned. The arrow, protruding clearly from her left thigh, was obviously causing her great pain.

“We have to move!” Erica hissed.

They had no chance to stop and remove the arrow yet. They were in serious danger any moment they hesitated. Erica tugged her friend along, urgently.  There were Palace Guards at the end of the street, their red uniforms glowing ominously. Erica sniffed for weakness.

“This way,” she said, and pulled Cora into the yard of another house, and through a side gate. They got through to a garden, and out the other side, and outside the circle of guards, but the wrong direction for Deaton or the fastest route out of the city.

“Run, Erica,” said Cora, “I’m just slowing you down.”

“Shut up,” Erica told her.

“I’m dead anyway,” said Cora, “That arrow was tipped with wolfsbane…”

“I said shut up,” said Erica, “This way.”

Through a coach way, leading only to a courtyard and stables, but there were still guards around. Erica pulled Cora down, out of the way, and into a stable. Horses whinnied, scared at the intrusion but there was soft hay on which Cora could rest, and Erica hushed the horses.

They waited for hours. The guards didn’t come in to their hiding place, but they dared not move. Cora was getting weaker. Black lines were growing more distinct on her skin, and though Erica had pulled the shaft clear, and the head had come easily with it, the poison was already eating its way through Cora’s body. They needed to get to Deaton fast.

They emerged well into the afternoon. Cora told Erica they were foolish, that they should not move except under the protection of the darkness, but Erica dared not wait longer. Her friend was failing before her eyes. A longer wait risked her death.

They stepped carefully out into the courtyard, feeling lucky that they had not been disturbed by grooms. Erica propped Cora up, trying to look as normal as possible. The market traders would be in full swing, and any one of the people in the town could be a spy, searching for them.

Miraculously, they reached Deaton’s street. He had the knowledge to cure Cora. Erica tried to speed up, but Cora was too far gone. She dropped to the ground, a useless weight.

“No!” Erica cried, “Come on, please!”

“Can I be of assistance?” a voice beside her asked.

She almost dropped her friend, but turned to look. The man from their first night, the one in the brown uniform, the watchman.

“I… my friend,” said Erica.

“She is hurt?” the watchman asked.

“Can you help us?” Erica asked.

The watchman looked at Cora, with a frown, “How did she come to be hurt?” he asked.

Erica struggled for a story. She couldn’t think of one. “Please, help,” she said. “My friend, he knows how to help her.”

“Deaton?” asked the watchman.

“Yes. Please!” said Erica.

The watchman stooped down, pulled Cora’s arm over his shoulders. Erica copied with the other side, immensely relieved. They got Cora to Deaton’s in minutes. Deaton let them in with a frown.

They put Cora on a bed, and Deaton got to work with efficiency. The watchman urged Erica into another room. “Are you hurt?” he asked, quietly.

“No,” she said. “Thank you… for…”

“Don’t,” said the watchman. “Where are they?”

“They?” asked Erica.

“The Hales,” said the watchman, “Are they near?”

Erica’s head was spinning. “Not… How did you…?”

The watchman shook his head sadly. “She important to those Hales?” he asked.

Erica nodded.

“Good,” said the watchman. “I have a dozen watchmen around this place, but it’s the Palace Guards you need to fear. The Palace Guards do not give a shit who lives or who dies, but I can’t see the Hales being different.”

“I don’t understand,” said Erica.

“You’re going to go back to them,” said the watchman. “To the Hales. I’m going to keep your friend here. I’ve got plenty of cells that used to hold every type of person since long before I was born. They’ll hold one of your kind.”

“What do you want?” Erica asked.

The watchman looked sad, so sad, Erica might have pitied him. “You’re going to go back to the Hales. You’re going to tell them that I’ve got your friend, and they can have her back. I don’t ask for much.”

“What do you want?” Erica repeated. She’d figured out that this was a form of extortion. A kidnapping by a man that no one had had a bad word to say about.

“You didn’t even ask who he was, did you?” the man stated. “People like that never do. They see the role, not the person. Just a servant, a nobody; collateral.” He sighed deeply. “You will return Stiles Stilinski to his home, or I will deliver your friend straight to the King himself.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
